September 2007 Archives

his soul is dead; says dr m.

but that wasn't all. not that he didn't know any of it before, but reassurance never hurts. he tried his best to talk succinct, nothing wordy, although he did make sure he throws in the keywords. indifference, inevitable death, universal misery and innate miscommunication of mankind.

he's stuck on track two of thirteen, "once". it's pretty cheesy. too cheesy. right up his alley, and he's stuck. nice is the new deceitful, according to dr m. noone's nice, unless you're lying of course. everyone's just who he is. selfish lonely creatures scattered across planet zoo. "and when i'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in." gods are brutal, but they're feeding us, so suck it up and live it.

track two restarts, only for the millionth time. she asked what he sees in the world, and if he ever stares at ants. of course she doesn't need to know that he counts the ants line on the edge of the tub every single morning to decide how many he could wash off into the drain that day. he says he sees perfect order in the whole and perfect chaos in details. she says ocean is significant and powerful and it's only made up of insignificant drops. he says he chooses to be the one that's left behind on the sand when the tide goes in, detached for good. cliche. corny. right up his alley, stuck on track two.

it's her voice probably, marketa irglova, suits the voice. she says indifference beats depression since the latter is a known phenomenon with a clear recovery path. indifference is the survival strategy of the selfless. when all one lives for is others, when self is suppressed, disappointed. she's right and wrong. he does live for others, yet his ego beats the ocean she's mesmerized with, which part of i-know-better-than-all-of-you-suckers signifies suppression?

or maybe it's the beat? or the scene from the movie? dr m believes his anima is suffocating him. she believes his dreams of we-all-know-who does not mean he wants her back, but that he hasn't let go. that he's in love with his anima and embodies it in the memory of this one woman who's walked him through the discovery. she's right probably. for one thing this explains the intimate shower sessions between his hands with the masculine member, it's not him, it's the horny anima.

last time he listened to one song so many times was probably first year of college, the all-nighters, indefinite whispering phone calls with this one tape of one song recorded over and over again in the background. whatever. towards the end dr m has one advice. cherish the dreams. she believes when the conscious persona gives up on life, the solution is in the subconscious. write down your dreams, she says. don't take them for face value, they're showing you what's holding you back. she asks if he believes in symbols. dr m does. he doesn't. he's lying like a dog.

thank you dr m, he thinks. he might never visit her again. dr m is a fine woman who thinks his soul is dead, that his status is worse than depression and that his self is suppressed with his anima running his show. she might be right, or might be wrong. dr m's words don't make any difference either. words are meaningless, expressionless. nothing matters, really, and the same song plays over and over and over again: if you want me, satisfy me.

there's a storm brewing over hollywood hills, time to sail away. she's always naked in my dreams, and it's so natural none of us brings it up. she's doing what she's doing and i'm usually reading a book or watching something on tv. sometimes i touch her skin on my way to the kitchen to grab a beer or something; sometimes she asks me about something i was supposed to follow up for her, to which i mutter some vague answer without interrupting what i'm doing. sometimes she walks cross my eyesight, fully naked, and i don't even notice.

sometimes we make love. she's often quite, her lips placid, her eyes wide open looking away to one side. sometimes she comes first. when she does she closes her eyes, gasps and stretches her neck, clings tightly to my shoulders for a few seconds before relaxing her facial muscles; after which she thrusts me in between her thighs not to stop until i finish and we both lie down dead still, i hear her heart beat as she breathes in my ear. then she leaves for the bathroom, and i watch her wobble away from me, in silence.

sometimes she's on the phone. she grabs her knees into her chest and leans against the cushions on the couch. her voice is serious, i almost don't recognize her, she never uses that tone with me. sometimes i put my head on her lap while she's talking, sometimes she walks away, fully naked, and i don't even notice.

sometimes someone's over. sometimes it's a friend of mine, i talk to him. sometimes it's a friend of hers, she talks to her. we go to movies. we eat. we talk about things. then we say bye and we go home. sometimes i brush my teeth first, sometimes she gets online before coming to bed. sometimes i'm asleep when she does, sometimes i hug her from behind before going to sleep, before we settle away to our own sides. sometimes our toes touch. sometimes that's all that matters to me, that our toes always touch when we're going to bed. sometimes i don't even notice. sometimes it's weird, since we've just had a fight, but our toes still touch.

i always wake up first. i always look at her. sometimes she's naked, sometimes she's not. sometimes she's wearing her pink gown, with her breast hanging out. sometimes its the white one with the string, sometimes i pull it to bare her nipple. sometimes i don't.

sometimes she's not there. then i realize i am awake. that she'll never be there, ever. sometimes i smile. sometimes i don't. it doesn't matter, really.

there's a black crow flying high above the hills in front of me, way below the clouds. its getting dark outside, a storm is coming and i should leave now.

i always wonder, did we ever talk?

opposites attract, and he repels, everyone.

there's nothing you could do to make someone love you; but there's a million things you could do to make them hate your guts. there's almost nothing in life to look forward to, but there's a whole lot to regret. there's very little to appreciate, but there's everything one needs to feel disappointed. lovers who leave, friends who let you down, and families who are just not there anymore.

and of course it's only worse when you're the lover who leaves, the friend who lets down and the one who moved away. how do cowards seek closure? how do assholes get along? is there a jerks' support group somewhere? hi my name is fuck you and i'm a douche bag. i'm worthless, subnormal and intolerable.

he thought about all this as he wondered if all of this is a pathetic cry for attention. he spent some time thinking if he cares what people think of him at all, and he realized he does though he likes to say he doesn't. he spent some more time wondering if life is about living up to the images people hold from him, he found the idea disturbing and conveniently dismissed it as soon as his mozarella and tomato pizza was ready.

he decided gogol bordello's right when he says there's no such thing as good old days, and that there's only today and a little bit of tomorrow and they're both very shitty. he also decided that from now on he'll only lower expectations to raise satisfaction, maybe now he'll stop worrying about the result, if any. he gave up on love, companionship and affection, and immediately labeled all subjects of this phenomenon to "mentally deranged" and "hopelessly optimistic". he was about to decide many other things but then he was tired and he ran out of wine, so he gave up and laid down instead, and he was really happy, or truly depressed, and then only realized that they're both really the same.

he then grabbed his book and lived the rest of his fiction. facts were never his forte.

bitterness prevails.

the human heart is designed with a certain capacity for love, joy and satisfaction. there's only so much love one could withhold before bursting, only so much joy before feeling lame and only so much satisfaction before wanting more and losing the status quo. noone's ever heard of a series of fortunate events, merely singular exceptions in an otherwise routinely disappointing affairs. that's of course caused by the heart maxing out on its happiness quota and seeking and finding the next glorious piece of misery in its surroundings, and sure enough it's right around the corner.

on the contrary and extremely out of proportion, taking away the little love and joy from the same seemingly lousy heart leads to infinite feelings of resentment, rage and apathy. noone's ever heard of 'as bad as it gets' simply because it can and will always get worse. there's always more to break, more to take away, more to endure and suffer. asymmetric hearts, that's what we've got. capped and bottomless.

he was thinking about all of this walking back home from the theater in midnight's chill. in a moment he took off his fleece jacket and then his t-shirt. in less than a minute he was numb. if only inside could go numb as quickly, if only it could take three years instead of thirty... but then even after thirty it still hurts. as much as things have gone wrong over and over and over again some once-upon-a-time stranger could manage to show up out of the ridiculous blue and take away more. how can one take what didn't exist? did she bring it with her when she arrived and took it away when she left? or was there some more he hadn't noticed until it was all gone? is it all gone now? is he finally safely frozen for good? what is left when one loses grace? what is left when one cheats on himself? when one challenges his own ego and wins? when one identifies with thoughts of all the freaks and losers and pests? when one can frightfully justify any given evil in sixty seconds or less?

but does it matter?

what matters? seriously, what? he got a single scoop of chocolate brownie on a regular - not sugar free - cone last night. it mattered, because he was too busy licking and didn't think much while it lasted. he got a dark chocolate chip muffin this morning and was too busy munching on it for some three minutes, it still mattered. maybe dark chocolate matters, especially its bitter aftertaste, maybe. and nothing else.

the man without a woman has a dog he hates, a phone that never rings and an empty seat across his table. he's immersed in his book as he sucks on a straw in his tall glass of blended cantaloupe. if you see him you'd almost swear he's incredibly content. if you pass by him you'd almost believe he's enjoying his time. if you stare at him you'd also see him smile, a most subtle little twitch at the corner of his lips. but then you'd most likely never see him or pass by him and most definitely never ever stare at him. the man without a woman is invisible in your world; he lives in one of his own, a world without women.

the man without a woman is peaceful. he's in no rush. he's observant, patient and tolerant. if you talk to him you'll find he's articulate and friendly. he'll listen. if you trust him you'll be most comfortable sharing your deepest secrets with him. if you judge him he'll just smile and support your argument, never picks on you to get even. only that you won't talk to him. you'll never trust him and you wouldn't ever get to judge him. the man without a woman never talks to anyone. he has nothing to talk about.

the man without a woman is a decent man. he doesn't lie and never cheats. if you get to know him you'll revise your perceptions of the male specimen. if you learn about his past you'd feel most affectionate towards him. if you hear his stories you'll almost like him more than you've ever liked anyone in your life. of course you'll never get to know him, and no matter how much you try you'll never understand how he became the man without a woman. he's the ultimate stranger, a total alien, an element of his own.

the man without a woman is happy although you'll never know. he's got a story you'll never read. he's got a vision you can't begin to understand. he knows so much he needs not think. the man without a woman could be the king. could be god. could be anything; only he isn't. the man without a woman doesn't care. he's utterly indifferent.

nothing ever matters, nothing, to the man without a woman.